


Come Through, Lord Commander

by orphan_account



Series: What We Do In The Semidarkness [9]
Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Drag Queens, F/M, Familiar Mallory, Fluff and Crack, Vampire Michael, What We Do In The Shadows AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 03:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mallory takes Michael to meet Staten Island royalty.
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Mallory
Series: What We Do In The Semidarkness [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1454485
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	Come Through, Lord Commander

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Drag names taken from this website http://www.newnownext.com/250-best-drag-names/03/2019/

It all starts when Lestat’s postcard arrives. Apparently, he isn't planning to return from the Middle East for some time. He drank some marauders who'd been terrorizing a village in Kazakhstan and now the people there want to hail him as their king.

“That goat fucker would ally himself with shepherds,” Michael spits, crumpling the postcard in his hands.

Mallory looks up from the soapy dish in her hands and stares at Michael. He’s moping, floating near the ceiling of the nest’s kitchen.

“He’s just trying to rile you up,” she tells him, keeping her tone deliberately light. “If you wouldn’t react it wouldn’t be half as much fun for him.”

Michael scowls at her, defensive, and snarls, “don’t make insightful observations, Mouse. It’s unbecoming of a slave.”

“Oh, I’m the slave?” Mallory cocks a peevish brow and pulls a gloved hand out of the sink. Suds drip down the yellow rubber as she holds two fingers up. “Two words, Michael: Tampon. Retrieval.”

\--

That should have been the end of the discussion—and for a while, Mallory thinks it is. Except two nights later, Michael looks up from between her legs, fingers doing devilish things to her insides, and demands that she take him to meet the Staten Island monarchy.

_Bastard_, Mallory thinks, stabbing him with her eyes. _She's so close_. 

A tense moment passes. Neither of them breaks. 

Knowing full well that the expediency of her orgasm is dependent on her answer, Mallory capitulates with a sigh. 

"I hate you," she groans, back arching sharply off of the bed as she comes. 

Michael just chuckles and presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Lies. Sleep now ma petite puce. Tomorrow we conquer."

Mallory's last thought before she drifts off is that Michael is going to be terribly disappointed. She can't wait.

\--

“Mouse, what kind of government gathers to discuss important matters of state at an establishment named _Confections_?”

Mallory smirks at the haughty sneer on Michael’s face. “A fabulous one,” she tells him.

Taking a hold of his arm, she drags him to the front of the line outside of the club and dangles him like bait in front of the bouncer. The large man looks Michael up and down and whistles appreciatively. “Those other girls are going to have some tough competition tonight,” he says, eyeing Michael’s ass in his fitted slacks. With that, he lifts the velvet rope and invites them inside.

It doesn’t take long for the drag queens to converge on them. They swing their wigs around in unison, sensing a disturbance in the attractiveness ratio of the guests, and narrow their lashed gazes on Michael. One particularly busty queen, who introduces herself as Dolly Postpartum, sidles up to them and coos, reaching out to touch Michael’s hair. “Oh honey, aren’t you just precious. Is this your first time?”

Michael clocks the size of her hands and leans away from her stroking to say out of the corner of his mouth, “Mouse, I believe this woman is a man.”

Mallory chews on the straw in her cocktail and pats his arm. “Yep. Meet one of the Queens of Staten Island, Michael. I’ll give you two guesses where she keeps her scepter and royal jewels.”

\--

Enya Buttocks, Kitten Caboodle and Nutella Fitzgerald are not very interested in Michael’s plans to install himself as Lord Commander of Staten Island—Mallory really needs to cancel Gallant’s HBO subscription—but they are keen to pull him backstage and get him ready for the amateur drag competition.

Putting Michael's name down on the online entry form was the greatest idea that Mallory’s ever had.

The look on his face when Sybil Disobedience explains where he’s going to have to tuck his cock and balls is _priceless_.

“What?!” Michael shouts, voice shrill with alarm. He cups himself protectively and backs away from the roll of clear Duck Tape that one of the girls holds out to him. “Why on earth would I want to put them _back_ _up_ there?”

Like a pack of dogs converging on a chicken nugget, the queens eventually just dog pile him and get the job done.

The screaming and threats that follow the rip of an ill-placed strip of tape have Mallory almost falling off of her chair with laughter.

“I swear to you, Phyllis Trough,” Michael pants, immortal wiener nestled between his shapely buns. “I will rip your spine from your body for the devastation that you’ve wrought on my privates.”

"HHHHNNNN." A queen pats Mallory's back as she wheezes, folding in half and hugging her knees.

Unphased by Michael's threats, Phyllis rolls her eyes and finishes zipping up his dress. “Okay, Bitch. But you’ve got to make it down that runway first.”

“And you better sissy that walk, Hunty. _Okurr?_” Nutella chirps, finishing the swoop of Michael’s eyeliner.

Michael’s painted brows draw together, considering. “I had a friend named Sissy with a distinctive gait. His parish was very badly affected by leprosy.”

Crickets.

Nutella and Phyllis stare at him for a moment, mouths gaping. "Party," they chorus eventually, at a loss for anything else to say. 

\--

Despite being present for Michael’s entire transformation backstage, Mallory’s still woefully unprepared for the image of him, done up in a floor length gown and stiletto heels, strutting down the catwalk like the love child of Claudia Schiffer and Giselle Buchanan.

The curves on that man should be illegal. Mallory blushes, fanning herself, and squirms in her seat. _Grab the balls and tuck it; motherfuck it. _

Michael’s gorgeous. And he knows it. The coy smile that he sends the audience before blowing her a kiss says as much.

Mallory's displeasure tastes like the three Long Island iced teas that she's had. _Dammit_. She was really hoping that Michael would pitch a fit or fall on his face again. 

Frustrated with the turn of events, she frowns—that is until she remembers that someone has to remove the tape from between his legs.

A terrible, awful smile unfurls on Mallory's face. "Hallelu," she hums. 


End file.
